Chapter 6: The Day Everything Almost Fell Apart
I picked Noah up from kindergarten the next afternoon just like any other day.
He was full of news about a caterpillar the class had found on the playground, and whether caterpillars dreamed, and whether Grandma thought they did.
I told him I thought they probably dreamed about becoming butterflies.
He considered this seriously and said that seemed right.
I waited until we were almost at his house before I said anything.
"Noah.
You know the lady in the garage?"
He nodded, suddenly solemn.
"She's going to go somewhere safe tonight.
Somewhere even better.
But she wanted to say goodbye to you first."
He looked out the window for a moment.
"Is she going to be okay?"
"Yes.
She is."
"And the baby?"
"Lily too."
He nodded again, slowly, like he was filing this information somewhere important.
"Okay," he said.
"I want to give her one more drawing."
"We can do that."
He made the drawing at the kitchen table while my daughter watched over his shoulder.
He drew a house with a big yellow sun above it and two figures standing outside — a tall one and a very small one.
He labeled them in his careful kindergarten letters: CARLA and LILY.
My daughter pressed her hand over her mouth for a moment.
Then she took Noah to the garage.
I stayed in the kitchen with Tom.
He was quieter than usual.
"Everything's set for tonight?" I asked.
"Yes.
We leave at nine." He paused.
"There's something I need to tell you."
I looked at him.
"Derek came to the house this morning.
Front door.
Knocked like a normal person."
My stomach dropped.
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I didn't know what he was talking about.
That we hadn't seen Carla.
That I was sorry he was going through a difficult time and I hoped he found her safe." Tom's jaw tightened.
"He was very polite.
Very calm.
That's what got to me.
He wasn't angry.
He was just — certain.
Like he already knew and was just waiting for the right moment."
"Did he ask to come in?"
"He asked if he could use the bathroom.
I said the plumbing was being worked on and apologized."
"And he left?"
"He left." Tom looked at the table.
"But before he got to his car, he stopped and turned around.
He said, 'You know, I just want to make sure she and the baby are all right.
A new mother, alone — anything could happen.'"
The way Tom said it made the hair on my arms stand up.
"That was a threat," I said.
"Yes.
It was."
From the garage, I could hear Noah's voice, high and earnest, explaining his drawing to Carla.
"We move at nine," I said.
"Not a minute later."
Tom nodded.
At seven-thirty, my daughter came to find me in the living room.
Her face was tight.
"There's a car outside," she said quietly.
"It's been there twenty minutes."
I went to the window.
Gray sedan.
Different plates from yesterday, but the same model.
"He's watching the house," I said.
"If we try to move her tonight—"
"We have to move her tonight."
"Mom, if he follows Tom's car—"
"He won't follow Tom's car," I said.
"He'll follow mine."
My daughter stared at me.
"What?"
"I'm going to leave first.
Loudly.
I'll make it look like I'm upset — a family argument, something that explains why I'm storming out.
He'll follow me because he won't know for certain whether Carla is with me.
It'll give Tom a window."
"That is not—"
"It's a perfectly reasonable plan."
"Mom, he's dangerous—"
"He's dangerous to Carla," I said.
"I am a sixty-three-year-old woman who is going to drive to a well-lit grocery store and walk around for thirty minutes.
What is he going to do?"
My daughter looked at me for a long moment.
"I don't like this," she said.
"You don't have to like it." I picked up my handbag.
"Tell Tom to be ready to leave fifteen minutes after I do.
And tell Carla—" I stopped.
"Tell Carla the dinosaur was a good choice."
I went to the front door and opened it with more force than necessary.
I said, loudly enough to carry, "I just think you could have told me sooner, that's all.
I'm your mother." I let the door close firmly behind me.
I walked to my car.
Got in.
Started the engine.
In my rearview mirror, the gray sedan's headlights came on.
I drove to the grocery store.
Took my time in the parking lot.
Went inside and walked every aisle slowly, a basket over my arm, picking up items I didn't need.
My phone buzzed at nine-forty-seven.
Tom: We're clear.
On the road.
I stood in the cereal aisle and let out a breath so long it must have looked strange to anyone watching.
I bought the things in my basket.
Drove home.
Checked my mirrors the whole way.
The gray sedan was gone.
I sat in my driveway for a moment in the dark.
Then my phone buzzed again.
It wasn't Tom.
It was a number I didn't recognize.
I stared at it.
Let it ring.
It stopped.
Then a text came through.
May you like
*I know you were involved.
This isn't over.*
